


you can wreck it, you can break it

by thebelljarlife



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, M/M, Mile High Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebelljarlife/pseuds/thebelljarlife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels like that, sometimes – like everything Harry’s seen and done still sits square on his shoulders. And the weight of it all is making his back ache, a twinge that starts around midday and by nightfall is a full blown monster that eats at his insides and makes him irritable. And part of that weight, part of that monster – perhaps the worst part, if Harry’s honest – is Louis.</p><p>Or, the OTRA tour is about to begin and things between Harry and Louis aren't as good as they used to be. Takes place on the plane journey from LA to Australia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can wreck it, you can break it

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics are from the as-yet untitled song from One Direction's fifth album that leaked. While we don't know who wrote it, in this I'm pretending that Harry did.
> 
> Many thanks to [Tara](http://achillesthegreat.tumblr.com) for the angst meta session that inspired this fic.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://alwaystyles.tumblr.com).

There is a mild hum that resonates throughout the plane, and Harry’s dry, tired eyes lift from his phone screen to the window that Louis has left open. They’re flying straight toward dawn, chasing the sun toward Australia in a race against nature to be the first to hit the sandy shores. The sun outside has barely risen, and the clouds which the plane glides over are a light blue-purple, hinting at that murky hour of four or five am where everything seems surreal.

And to Harry, whose brain is still poised on LA time somewhere between eating dinner and turning into bed, the fact that they’re about to start their new tour _is_ surreal. After a handful of months off which were mostly littered with album promotion and publicity arrangements, the knowledge that they’re once again back on the road seems – jarring. He’d gotten used to his days being less micromanaged; to waking up when he wanted to and rolling out of bed to a text from Jeff asking if he wanted to grab lunch or coffee; to spending his evenings either in with Louis or out with friends. Now, his days will be spent confined to a hotel room or ducking around corners and through back entrances to restaurants and clubs. The prospect weighs heavily on Harry’s shoulders, and they haven’t even landed yet – but he knows it’s coming, that inevitable itch-under-the-skin feeling of tour that makes him want to scrub himself down in the shower for hours, just to be a little bit lighter.

Harry’s eyes drift to Louis asleep, head heavy on Harry’s shoulder. Louis’ always been better at dealing with the touring than Harry – able to toss his clothes about a hotel room as if it were their own back home and call it his. Back at the start, before things were as big as they are now, Harry could almost tap into that mentality: he could enjoy the crisp sheets of a new bed every night, the folded towels and neat hotel stationary on the bedside table. It wasn’t home, but it wasn’t exactly a step down, either – it was exciting to be away, living it up in fancy hotels across the world. But five years on, and Harry wants his lived-in couch and bed; he wants to wake up to find Louis’ wet towels on the bathroom floor, and he wants to find Louis’ beard clipping across the sink basin. Life on the road has taught Harry that he longs for the simple things these days, wearing down at his bones as if he were already impossibly old.

 _Maybe I am,_ he thinks bitterly, watching the strands of Louis’ hair flicker beneath his own steady breathing. _Maybe I’ve lived more in the last five years than some people live in twenty._ It feels like that, sometimes – like everything Harry’s seen and done still sits square on his shoulders. And the weight of it all is making his back ache, a twinge that starts around midday and by nightfall is a full blown monster that eats at his insides and makes him irritable. And part of that weight, part of that monster – perhaps the worst part, if Harry’s honest – is Louis.

Things between them haven’t been good in a while – good being how they used to be; when everything felt like a game that only they two could play at. Where they’d kiss just to feel the other closer, where they’d fuck in bathrooms and tour buses, quiet and giggling into each other’s palms so security wouldn’t hear. Good is relative, Harry tries to reason – every couple has rough patches, times when they seem to be in a bit of a rut and nothing runs in their favour. But the memory of Harry’s birthday, just two days prior, still burns at the back of his throat.

Coming home to the candles and the decorations – minus Louis to complete the surprise - had been too much.

Harry turns his eyes away from the top of Louis’ head and back to the phone in his hand. Instagram posts from his friends sit prettily on his feed, but he exits the app with an inward huff and slips it down the side of the seat. Turning instead to the journal which balances on his knee, Harry stares at the battered cover. He hadn’t planned on writing anything – the next album was already coming along nicely thanks to the long sessions that Liam and Louis have been putting in, but Harry did want to contribute. Pinching his bottom lip between his fingers with the hand that isn’t trapped by Louis’ slight frame, he sighs and reaches for a pen.

Opening to the next clean page – one that’s dotted with a doodle in the margins he remembers doing during their last meeting – he poises his pen above the blank canvas. What does he want to say? His eyes drift to Louis’ sleeping profile, still and peaceful against his shoulder, and it’s almost – _so close_ – to looking like they used to that it makes Harry’s heart ache. The number of times they’ve slept curled up together on planes and buses has outnumbered the amount of space Harry’s brain can quantify; but this Louis, the one that will switch on when his eyes open, wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t willingly sleep on Harry, because he’s been avoiding sleeping in the same bed as Harry for the last two nights.

Harry’s nose and eyes itch at the thought, and his pen starts scribbling—

_I don’t need my heart._

It’s a lie – filthy, disgusting, stick-to-your-hands-like-blood kind of lie – but he feels stronger for having written it.

_You can wreck it. You can break it._

The itch is back, and Harry scrubs his eyes with his fingers, dropping the pen into the crease of his journal. The last thing he wants is to start crying on an airplane – paps will be waiting for them when they arrive, zooming in to see how horrible he looks anyway, and Harry didn’t want to give them more ammunition. Swallowing thickly and looking back at the words, he picks up his pen again.

_I don’t need your love._

It’s his worst lie yet, and so blatantly false that he scribbles out the ‘your’ so fiercely that even the FBI couldn’t decode it. In its place, he writes ‘my,’ and drops his pen, staring at it. That feels better – what’s his love worth anyway without someone to give it to? He quickly scribbles a ‘ _you can take it, you can take it_ ’ beside the last line and closes his eyes.

Everything has been so wrong lately, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. They’ve fought in the past – loads of times, more than he could count – but it wasn’t as bad as this feels. There’s a kind of twisting in his stomach, a kind of instinctual gut reaction that tells him he’s fucked up on some unknown level, but he can’t for the life of him understand. He just wants to make things right: he wants this tour to be their best yet, and he wants to share actual memories and moments with Louis because it could be their last year as a band. Things feel so shaky with Zayn and management, and with Paul gone, they all feel in a bit of a tail-spin. When things have been rocky in the past, Harry had always leant on Louis – Louis would never lead him astray – but now, he’s not sure.

Harry opens his eyes and looks back down at the older man, sleeping with his mouth slightly open. Unthinkingly, he reaches up and brushes back the long part of Louis’ fringe from his forehead, watching him almost chase the hand that Harry retracts.

He looks – he looks young, Harry decides.

Five years have passed since they met, five long years of touring almost nonstop and their lives exposed in almost every regard for the public to consume, and yet what hasn’t changed in that time is how he feels for Louis, of that he’s positive. He still feels his heart pound when he sees Louis walk into a room; he still gets shivers when they touch, skin to skin with hands and mouths. But – and there’s always a but – it’s harder, now, too. It’s harder to look at Louis and see the boy who’d jumped into his arms when they were told they’d be in a band together; it’s harder to see the almost tangible thread that used to bind them together. Harry knows he loves Louis – he _knows_ it, bone deep – but he isn’t so sure that he knows _Louis_ anymore.

And that’s staggering, leaving Harry feeling almost breathless. He wants to take back the thought, backspacing it out of existence, but it’s there, fully formed, hovering persistently. Harry can name all of Louis’ favourite cereals in descending order, but lately it feels as though Louis isn’t even shopping in the same store as Harry. Which – he realises, slowly – is a stupid and pathetically accurate metaphor, and he contemplates writing it down in his journal. Louis would probably throw in a handful of new favourite cereals just to spite Harry, rattling off names and brands he didn’t even know, grinning when Harry would look away, embarrassed and humiliated. He knows that Louis can be cruel, maybe sometimes on purpose, but not toward _him,_ not often anyway, and usually not without warrant. That’s the thing that’s been bugging Harry the most – what had he done?

The night of his birthday party comes back in ebbs and flows, some parts slightly blurry from the alcohol, but he remembers with clarity Louis saying he didn’t feel well. And Harry, though disappointed, had been about to plead one final time before relenting when Daisy had pulled him in for a selfie, all white teeth and long bangs. When they’d finished, the flash still blinking in his eyes, Louis had been gone. The itch of hurt makes Harry want to jerk his shoulder out from under Louis in a bout of pettiness – it had been his _birthday_ and Louis had just _left._ Harry would have a heart attack on the kitchen floor before he left Louis’ birthday.

Maybe that’s where they’ve gone wrong: where nothing could’ve stopped Louis before, now there’s a plethora of ready-to-go excuses at hand that allow them to slip away from each other. Louis had never been the easiest person to understand, but Harry had thought he’d gotten a pretty good grip on his moods and ticks – when to step back, when to push, when to apologise. Now it feels like every breath he takes is pissing Louis off, and that – well, Harry doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

He picks up his pen again and starts to doodle on the page, jagged black pictures of hearts, roses, and daggers that pin them down, bleeding them out. Harry’s eyes burn with the need to sleep and the urge to cry his frustration out, but he holds it back, digging his pen deeper into the page until he’s afraid it’s going to tear.

“Gonna make a mess of your book if you keep going,” comes Louis’ rumble, and Harry’s hand jerks in surprise, not even aware that Louis had woken up.

“’S just a journal,” Harry mumbles, closing the book with a definitive snap as Louis picks his head up off Harry’s shoulder and visibly shifts away, reclaiming his space. “Meant to be ruined, innit?”

Harry’s shoulder feels cold from where Louis had been.

Louis’ face seems to harden almost instantly, and again, Harry feels the sharp twist in his stomach, like he’s fucked up somehow and doesn’t even realise it. He’s been silently chastised every time he looks at Louis for days, and it’s wearing him down, enough that he turns away from the other boy.

“’m gonna sleep,” he continues, tucking his journal and pen down the side of the seat, thigh pressing against it protectively. He knows Louis wouldn’t read it – they’ve talked about boundaries and privacy – but he doesn’t trust the flight attendants more than Louis right now. “Got a few hours til we land, so.”

He’s attempting to curl his long limbs into something that resembles a pretzel when Louis shifts in his peripheral vision.

“Or you could let me suck your dick,” Louis says, so offhandedly that Harry’s heart skids to a stop. “Come down my throat,” he continues, and now Harry’s turned to look at him, incredulous. “But if you think a nap sounds better...”

He shrugs, as if his words were as simple as a request for a cup of tea, and Harry’s pulse is racing, surely audible to Louis. It’s – it’s not that Harry doesn’t want that, because he does – _a lot_ – but it’s just that they haven’t touched each other in over a week, since before things got Bad, and – he hadn’t even hoped. But the sudden offer of intimacy makes his stomach unfurl just a little, as though the hope of healing their problems is on the horizon. Sex had always been a way for them to communicate both the good and the bad in their relationship – and while it probably wasn’t a recommended form of couples therapy, it worked for them. They had sex when they missed each other, they had sex when they were mad; they would usually talk afterward or during, airing their problems and grievances until they came out on the other side in some kind of restored balance.

“I—yeah. Yeah – okay,” he says in a rush, as though afraid that if he takes too long, Louis will change his mind. “Better go to the bathroom, though, yeah?”

Louis says nothing as they both climb out of their seats on shaky, cramped legs and head toward the bathroom. Harry wants to take his hand – he can already feel the smile forming on his face, excited by the illicitness of the act, loving how classic Louis it feels. He hopes he’s wrong – he hopes that he does know Louis, that he doesn’t want to throw Harry for a loop just for fun.

The moment they’re squeezed into the modest sized airplane bathroom, Louis’ pushing him back against the door with a firm hand and on his knees, yanking at Harry’s jean buttons. It feels rushed and exciting, and though Harry would normally ask for a kiss before they get started, he’s afraid of what interrupting Louis would do – he’s afraid of asking for more than he’s getting. He barely registers the fact that there’s a mirror right across from him before Louis has his mouth on his cock, swallowing him down practiced efficiently.

“God, fuck, Lou,” Harry groans, head hitting the door, exposing his throat as he gasps for air. It feels stifled inside the bathroom, as though the oxygen has shrunk down to bloated, heavy molecules that clog up his lungs. Louis’ tongue is flat against the length of his cock as he takes him inside his mouth, deeper and deeper, until Harry can feel himself nudge the back of Louis’ throat. “Shit,” he whispers, hips jerking unconsciously, seeking more.

Harry’s hand rests on Louis’ head, threading through his hair, not guiding or pushing, but letting Louis work as he sees fit. His eyes slip closed as Louis pulls off, licking at the head of his cock before sinking back down, and Harry has to give him points for enthusiasm. He’s taking Harry down as though he’s been starved of cock for years – as though this is the only thing that can possibly matter to him right now, and it’s unexpectedly intense as Harry looks down at Louis.

His cheeks, hollowed around Harry’s length, are enhanced by the fluorescent light of the bathroom, making him look eager and desperate, and when his eyes open to glance up at Harry, they’re blown wide with lust.

“Lou,” Harry says, his voice torn, and he brings his hand down to cup Louis’ jaw, feeling it work as his cock slides in between his pink, split-slicked lips. “Feels so good, fucking hell. Missed your mouth.”

One of Louis’ hands comes up to wrap around the base of Harry’s cock, dragging the spit down his length and jerking him off in time with his mouth. It feels amazing – just enough, this side of too-good, and Harry’s hips buck once more, causing Louis to gag and glare up at Harry.

“Sorry,” he mumbles quickly, massaging Louis’ scalp. “Just feels amazing, fuck – sorry.”

He’s running his mouth and when Louis pulls off his cock, he thinks that he’s about to be told to shut up, or – worse – to pull his pants back up, but instead Louis’ hand continues to work his cock.

“Fuck my mouth, then,” he says, and his voice is already broken and hoarse-sounding in a way that’ll make Helene frown at rehearsals. Louis must notice Harry’s hesitance because he’s digging his fingertips into Harry’s hips. “Do it, Haz, please.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, nodding frantically as Louis’ mouth tentatively closes around his cock again. “Yeah, Lou, gonna fuck your mouth if that’s what you want.”

He feels Louis’ mouth go loose around his cock just as he gets a better grip on Louis’ hair, and when he rocks his hips forward for the first time, it feels so good that he lets out a whimper. Louis’ mouth is hot and wet, tightening around his cock as he pulls out before pushing back in. He can feel Louis working to loosen his throat, to not gag around the length of him, and Harry is so thankful – he wants to dedicate monuments and grandiose sky writing signs to Louis’ mouth. Harry slides in and out, hips picking up in pace as he chases his orgasm, holding Louis still as he fucks the tip of his cock between his lips until his breathing – stuttered, laboured, erratic – almost stops.

“Gonna come, Lou – fuck,” and he lets go of Louis’ head, letting him pull off if he wanted to, but Louis buries Harry’s cock deeper inside as the younger boy spills down his throat.

When it’s over and his legs sufficiently feel weakened, Harry opens his eyes to see Louis wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, his own cock looking hard inside his jeans. Harry feels warm, ringing from head to toe, and he blindly reaches for Louis, leaning in to kiss him. But he’s too slow, and Louis ducks out of the way at the last moment, preferring to fix his hair in the mirror, and Harry tries not to feel the sting. He’d thought – well, he didn’t know what he’d thought. That one blow job could heal whatever rift was opening up between them quicker and faster than a sinkhole? That whatever he’d done wrong – because he’d definitely done something – would be fixed because he followed Louis’ orders?

“Lou,” he pleads, catching Louis by the wrist as the other boy moves toward the door. “Fuck me? Please?”

He hadn’t been intending to suggest it, but with the words out of his mouth, he realises how much he wants – _needs_ – it. Louis looks as if he’s about to shoot Harry down, face hardening despite the pink lips that give away what he’d just been doing.

“Need it – want you in me so bad,” Harry presses, licking his lips and shifting so that he’s pressing against Louis in the minimal space offered them by the bathroom. “You owe me one for my birthday, yeah?”

It’s dangerous territory bringing up his birthday, and he can see it flash in Louis’ eyes, but something must connect, because Louis’ pushing him backward til his arse connects with the sink.

“Bend over,” Louis orders, and Harry almost slips out a _thank you_ before he’s pushing down his jeans down to his ankles and leaning over the sink til he’s resting on his elbows with his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. He feels incredibly vulnerable and exposed like this, despite the fact that it’s Louis – Louis, who he’s fucked and been fucked by dozens – hundreds – of times.

The sound of something ripping fills the bathroom and then there’s a wet finger against his entrance, pushing inside up to the knuckle and causing Harry to clench around the intrusion.

“Feels good,” he whispers, head dropping down to the cool surface of the bench, and he pushes back against Louis’ finger just as he slips a second in beside the first. Harry hisses, back arching in a way that’ll hurt later, but for the moment it feels good – the stretch and burn as Louis scissors his fingers. “I can take another,” Harry tells him, looking over his shoulder at Louis, but the angle is off and he can’t see his face. Instead, Harry glances in the mirror, catching Louis’ eye in the reflection – he looks dark, eyes like a stormy sea, and Harry wishes it were different. Wishes he could be better so it wouldn’t be there at all.

Louis’ got three fingers in him, the stretch making Harry’s cock twitch with interest – he always did like the pain – before they’re gone, and Harry’s empty. He watches Louis in the mirror as he slicks up his own cock, two quick flicks of his wrist, business-like, before he’s lining up with Harry’s hole. When he pushes inside, the stretch is worse, and Harry gasps, tightening up instinctively around Louis’ cock, causing the other boy’s breath to push out of him. There’s a moment of pause, Louis easing in slowly while Harry adjusts, forcibly relaxing his body as he watches Louis in the mirror, the way his eyes scan Harry’s body from where they’re joined to the dip in his spine to the eyes watching him back.

“Lou,” Harry mumbles, panting against the counter, and Louis’ hand slides up the length of Harry’s spine to the nape of his neck. Harry wants to tell him so much – wants to blurt out every stupid word of endearment and affection he knows in the hope that it’ll make Louis stop looking at him like that – but he comes up short. “Love you,” he says, the word’s barely a breath but it sounds intimate in the enclosed space.

A war crosses Louis’ face as he draws his cock out of Harry slowly, and as he’s easing back in, fingers curling around the length of Harry’s hair, he finally meets Harry’s eyes in the mirror. “Love you too,” he replies, and that’s – that’s enough, enough to make Harry push back to meet Louis’ thrusts. Harry doesn’t think about the beat that it took for Louis to reply, or the emotions that flickered across his face as he did so, because those things can be worked out – as long as Louis loves him, there’s nothing they can’t figure out.

Harry’s palms flatten against the countertop as he pushes back to meet Louis’ hips, the wet drag of Louis’ cock feeling amazing after so many days without. When they establish a rhythm of Harry’s hips pushing back as Louis’ thrust forward, it doesn’t take long for either of them to teeter close to orgasm. Harry can’t stop watching Louis in the mirror – watching the way his hair clings to his forehead, the way his mouth drops open as he feels Harry tighten around him, the way the barriers are broken down just a little bit more the longer it keeps going. He wants so much for Louis, and he wants them to be fine, and he wants things to be good, but for now he has this – he has the ability to make Louis feel good, right here and now.

“Fuck,” Louis groans, the word gritted out through his teeth, and his fingers are digging into Harry’s hips in a way that he hopes will leave bruises tomorrow. “Feel so good.”

The compliment renews Harry’s efforts, and he clenches around Louis as he fucks back into him, causing the other boy to gasp suddenly and spill inside of the condom. He rides out the orgasm with shallow thrusts, Harry arching his back so that Louis hits his prostate dead on, causing Harry to come quickly, ripping a curse from his lungs due to the sensitivity in his cock.

They’re breathing heavily when Louis pulls out and ties off the condom, throwing it into the toilet and flushing. He’s ripping off toilet paper from the holder as Harry slumps, boneless, against the sink counter before wiping Harry down, cleaning off the excess lube smeared on his arse and thighs.

“That was amazing,” Harry says, a dopey smile on his face that causes his dimples to pop. “Gonna get our card when we leave here.”

Louis balls up the toilet paper and throws it into the toilet. “Card?” he echoes, looking at Harry as he flushes it for a second time.

“For the club,” Harry continues, not caring that his arse is still hanging out while he goofily grins at Louis. “Mile high club and all.”

For a moment, Louis seems fond, and Harry grins back happily. “You’re an idiot. Get dressed,” he says, but he’s helping Harry a moment later, both of them a little weak-kneed as they button their jeans back up.

Louis’ turning to walk out, but Harry’s got his long-fingered hand wrapped around his wrist. “Wash your hands, Lou. We’re not heathens.”

He thinks Louis is about to bitch at him – some comment about where his fingers have been – but he complies, washing his hands in tandem with Harry, their fingers brushing under the spray. It’s stupid – it feels good, though; and Harry lets out a snort when Louis flicks the water off his clean hands at Harry before wiping them on his sweats.

“Can we go now?” Louis checks before opening the door, looking at Harry with a steeled-like expression that Harry knows is mostly for show.

Harry, for his part, reaches out and fixes Louis’ fringe, but there’s not much to do to disguise the sweat-slicked strands from being exactly that. “Yeah,” he replies softly, hand dropping back to his side. “Yeah, we can.”

The door clicks shut behind them, and surely every member of staff on the plane must know what happened and are currently thanking God that it’s over. But Harry – Harry’s beaming, hands clasped in front of himself as he follows Louis back to their seats. It feels good to sit down, and Harry arches his back to try and work out the kinks that are starting to settle into the muscle from the position he’d been in, but it was worth it – worth it to see Louis smile, even if for a moment.

And it’s therefore unexpectedly pleasant when Louis’ hand takes his own. Harry glances over, looking for an explanation (since when did they need one?), but Louis’ already got his eyes closed, head turned away from Harry and toward the window. There’s the briefest of pangs inside Harry, but he dusts it away quickly, and instead he squeezes Louis’ hand. Things might not be perfect, and they might be going through something that he doesn’t understand completely, but he knows that Louis loves him, and that’s enough.

For now, at least.


End file.
